


Domesticity

by bluester007



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brief Mention of Alcoholism, Fluff, M/M, mainly just fluff, with a tiny bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluester007/pseuds/bluester007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony isn’t sure exactly when he fell in love. He can’t say whether it had been a sudden, abrupt jump, or a long, gradual change. He doesn’t even really know when he had realised it, either. All he can say for certain, without a doubt, is that, currently, in this moment, he is completely, inconsolably, impossibly in love with Steve Rogers, and he has absolutely no clue what to due about it.</p><p>Or; the one where Tony and Steve are saps and apparently so am I</p><p>Also: this is actually embarassingly bad plot-wise (or what little plot there is), but I don't have the heart to delete it. Be forewarned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domesticity

Tony isn’t sure exactly when he fell in love. He can’t say whether it had been a sudden, abrupt jump, or a long, gradual change. He doesn’t even really know when he had realised it, either. All he can say for certain, without a doubt, is that, currently, in this moment, he is completely, inconsolably, impossibly in love with Steve Rogers, and he has absolutely no clue what to due about it.

He knows what _he_ wants to do, of course – that being taking the elevator straight up from his workshop to the good Captain’s floor and promptly sucking face. He’s perfectly comfortable with his sexuality – his sexual exploits (with mostly women, granted, but still the occasional man) have been plastered across the covers of various tabloids and web pages since he was in his 20s. He’s not at all conflicted about the nature of his feelings, nor the validity of them.

The source of his uncertainty is purely and primarily Steve himself.

Could Steve ever possibly feel the same way? Would he be comfortable reciprocating his feelings? Is he attracted to Tony, or could he ever be? Is he even attracted to men?

Tony doesn’t believe Steve could ever think anything bad of him – Steve’s far too nice for his own good, Captain America to the core. The question is simply how Steve will react, assuming he is ever to learn about Tony’s feelings for him. Tony values their friendship, far more than he would ever admit to anyone else. Despite their rocky start (that being the kinder term), they had somehow, inexplicably, grown close after the Avengers made Stark Tower their permanent home and base of operations. Their friendship had begun almost instantly. After a cursory week of playing host while the team settled in, Tony had reverted back to his usual routine: hiding away in his workshop in the basement for days on end until he was forced back into the world by his body’s refusal to go any longer without a fulfilling meal and sleep, as opposed to sporadic napping sessions and a diet of coffee, protein bars and scotch. It had panicked the team, at first, prompting them to alert Pepper. She had laughed them away, assuring them this was his normal behaviour. (He only knows this because they had contacted her through JARVIS, who kept a constant record of all the coming and goings in the tower, and through whom he had listened in to the conversation – for security reasons, of course, not because he likes to be nosy.) They had, apparently, not been convinced this was healthy behaviour, and began taking it in turns delivering him meals twice a day, as well as establishing the “48 in 96” rule; the rule, applying, in some form, to almost all of the towers residents, enforced a mandatory break period between binges (because, as they all quickly learned, almost every member of the team has at least one destructive binge-habit).

Tony can work for countless hours without rest, and therefore is permitted from spending more than 2 days in the workshop, with at least a 2-day break (which he sometimes manages to shorten to 1).

Steve can while away the hours in the gym with his specially reinforced boxing bag, which hadn’t been an issue, at first, until that unfortunate incident where Clint had snuck up behind him and Steve, unwaveringly focused on beating an inanimate object to a pulp for 6 consecutive hours, had drawn his arm back too hard and too fast and broken Clint’s nose with his elbow (a scene, caught on camera by JARVIS, that Tony and Natasha liked to re-watch simply for a good laugh). Steve is now limited to 4 hours in the gym each day, and will be locked out by JARVIS for the following week if he refuses to leave.

Natasha, to everyone’s surprise, is a TV junkie. This they discovered when JARVIS alerted them that she had been awake for 4 days straight watching _Buffy_ , and is consequently banned from Netflix if she spends more than 30 hours in front of the TV (it had originally been 12 hours, but she had argued that “if Tony can spend 48 hours tinkering then she spend 48 hours watching her shows.” They had been forced to compromise for 30, because, Steve said, “watching Netflix for 2 days is just pure gluttony, whereas what Tony does is actually somewhat productive”, and Tony had stuck his tongue out at Natasha because he is a grown man, thank you very much.)

Bruce, to no ones’ surprise, is the only one on the team who keeps up a healthy routine. He meditates in the morning, eats 3 healthy meals a day, spends a reasonable amount of time in his lab, and sleeps at “normal people” times. Tony doesn’t think this is a fair comparison, though, because living so simply and without destructive tendencies is unhealthy, in his opinion. But then again, if Bruce didn’t live by routine, he wouldn’t be nearly as calm, what with having to deal with the insanity that is the rest of his team, and then they would have to play clean-up after a green rage monster rampaging through New York. (Again).

Although Clint and Thor don’t have frequent binge-habits that must be restricted for their own wellbeing and others, they do have regular bad habits of their own variety.

Thor has this little problem where he doesn’t realise how loud he is speaking until his over-excited exclamations result in broken glass and headaches caused by shattered eardrums. Tony had initially had the genius idea to make a shock collar that went off whenever Thor’s voice reached a certain pitch, but the rest of the team had adamantly refused, bar Clint (who had been unable to give his opinion while bent over laughing), stating “he’s not a dog, Tony.” In hindsight, it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, what with Thor being the god of lightning and all and therefore likely immune electric shocks. The only option had been to gently explain to Thor that humans cannot withstand that same degree of noise that Asgardians can, and although this has worked for the most part, he is still prone to roaring his words when his emotions get away from him.

Clint’s bad habits are the kind that nothing can really be done about. His penchant for exploring the ventilation systems when under the effects of alcohol is only an issue when he does so black-out drunk and makes _a lot_ of noise. This was tolerated, at first, until that time he got shitfaced, crawled into the vents, vomited, and then passed out, and no one could get to him (because Natasha was away on a mission for Fury and no one else could fit). This is solved simply by having JARVIS lock the vents the moment Clint goes anywhere near alcohol. That other habit, where he balances precariously in horrendously high places, keeping watch over the city from his perch, is one of those things that everyone learnt to bare (because they all had their coping mechanisms, and while some were more dangerous than others, there was an unspoken agreement that they were accepted and ignored unless they began to present a very real threat – and while it can be argued that balancing on the edge of a roof is threatening, it’s also a mutually accepted fact that Clint is like a cockroach in the way that he just does not seem to be able to die, despite all the stupid shit he pulls on missions. Also, he’s pretty well balanced, so there’s that.)

Sam and Rhodey seem to be the only Avengers with their heads screwed on right (which is concerning, Tony thinks, considering the number of people who rely on them for protection), although neither of them permanently live at the tower, so Tony doesn’t include them in the “48 in 96” equation, anyway.

This is where Tony’s friendship with Steve had begun, really: with bonding over their shared binge-habits. And then, suddenly, they just were.

Now Tony is sitting on a very major fact that could potentially change that – not necessarily in a bad way, but then, not certainly in a good way, either. And he just can’t, for the life of him, figure out what to do. He’s a genius. He was accepted at MIT when he was 15 year old. He’s the Da Vinci of his time – the greatest mind alive today. He built the most advanced piece of machinery in existence in a cave in Afghanistan out of scraps.

And he has absolutely no idea.

So, in the end, he decides to just wing it. If the moment seems right, he’ll say something. If not, then he’ll just keep it to himself forever, and hope it’s chased away by the sting of rejection (even though it’s not technically rejection if he never gives Steve a chance to do the rejecting).

 

* * *

 

It’s a Friday evening, and the team is sprawled around the common area, enjoying the after-glow of Bruce’s delicious cooking. It’s an open-plan space, with the kitchen in the far corner, the counter stretching around it in the place of a wall. Off this is the dining area, marked by a long table with enough room to seat the ever-growing team and more. To the side of the kitchen and dining area is a vast space – big enough for the whole team without being crowded, but small enough to not feel cold and distant. It’s filled with a cluster of lounges and armchairs surrounding a coffee table and flat screen. A wall of windows starts where the kitchen finishes, and curves around the dining table, up towards the lounge area. It affords the best view in the city, seconded only to that from the penthouse one floor above and the roof, the light from the setting sun bathing the room in an earthly glow.

Tony, in an unexpected turn of events, is almost entirely sober (although when he says _almost_ , he simply means that he’s not drunk, and is, rather, functioning on a significantly lower amount of alcohol than he usually would be – he’s not quite sure how to feel about that, though). Clint, on the other hand, is well onto his fourth drink, and is grinning stupidly at everyone.

“We should play a game,” he says, and there’s a smug lilt to his tone.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “We’re not playing monopoly again, Clint.”

Clint frowns. “Why not?”

In lieu of answering, Natasha reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, flicking over to some documentary about trees that Thor is instantly interested in. Tony snorts; for an alien god, his resemblance to that of a puppy is uncanny.

The scraping of the chair beside him calls his attention, and then he’s watching Steve as he pushes away from the dining table and starts collecting the dishes. Tony helps by gathering the dishes he can reach from his seat and passing the stack to Steve, who smiles his thanks and turns to the kitchen. The tap runs, and Tony watches Steve roll his sleeves up past his elbows, admiring the flex of muscle and tanned skin. Tony’s embarrassed by how transfixed he is by the simple movements of Steve washing the dishes – his arms disappearing into soapy water, brow creased in concentration as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn spot of dirt. Tony swallows, and turns his attention to the lounge area, where he locks gazes with Natasha. She quirks an eyebrow in question, a suggestive tilt at the corner of her mouth, and glances in the direction of the kitchen. Tony quickly looks away, rising from his seat and picking up the few stray forks and cups. He takes them to Steve, and wordlessly picks up a tea towel, falling seamlessly into a rhythm beside him. He’s acutely aware of Steve’s elbow brushing against his, and he finds a simple comfort in the contact. He’s content, he realises, drying the dishes Steve passes to him, and he’s suddenly struck by the domesticity of it. What shocks him even more, though, is that he’s not at all bothered by it – in fact, he finds he quite likes it, and isn’t that a strange thought? Never in his life has Tony wanted something so simple and ordinary as domesticity. Maybe, once, when he was a child – six years old and sent off to boarding school, he had craved a family, craved the love and affection of his absent parents, as yes, maybe then he had wanted something so _tame_. But he grew up – quickly – and realised that was something he would never have. He told himself he didn’t want it, anyway – how incredibly boring it would be, to live a life so very mundane – and had even fully believed it, until now. But this, standing here with Steve, _washing dishes_ , of all things – everything seems to fall in place, and it all seems so perfect and simple and _happy_.

He glances up at Steve and notices he’s already looking at him, and that smile is what does it – the crooked slant of his mouth, as though caught on a hook, and the way it warms his whole face. Tony couldn’t have stopped himself even if he wanted to.

With his free hand – the one not holding the towel – he reaches up and grips Steve’s neck, his body moving without volition, turning into Steve as though it’s the most natural thing in the world – and it is, really. Before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s pulling Steve’s head down, and reaching up on his toes, and then he’s kissing him. It’s gentle and slow, and Steve reacts immediately, moving his lips against Tony’s, his hand snaking around his waist, and Tony’s dimly aware of the fact that he’s now covered in soapy water, but really he just doesn’t care because Steve’s lips are soft and hard at the same time – gentle but firm, pliant but steady. It’s long and languid, and Tony’s never kissed like this. He’s had passion, and lust, hard and fast kisses that served one purpose only, that had an end game. This is something entirely different. It has feeling – genuine emotion. It could go on forever and he wouldn’t mind one bit.

His other hand moves to Steve’s neck, towel clutched in his hand, and they turn until they’re pressed together, chest to chest, knee to knee, Steve pulling him closer in his arms. But it stays the same – the same slow, easy pace, the same abundance of feeling, and Tony’s chest feels as though it might burst.

When they do pull apart, it’s because a dish has slipped into the sink with a clang, splashing warm suds. Steve doesn’t bother to spare it a glance, choosing instead to smile down at Tony, his face glowing hot and bright like the sun. He presses their foreheads together, and Tony closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the moment, and the smell of _Steve_.

Briefly, Tony thinks that when he’d planned to wing it, he had not pictured kissing Steve while doing the dishes, and he almost laughs, because what could have been better, really?

Steve cups his cheek with his hand, and Tony presses his lips to his palm, noticing, for the first time, the smile pulling at his own cheeks.

“Tony,” Steve says, quietly, almost a whisper, “I-”

He breaks off, for a moment, and swipes his thumb under Tony’s eye.

“I think I’m in love with you, Tony,” he says, and Tony can’t help but grin.

“You think?” he asks, teasing.

“I know,” he says, and he’s so completely serious.

“Well, good,” Tony says, and kisses him again, just because he can. “Because I _know_ I love you.”

Steve snorts. “Do you?”

Tony hums and buries his face in Steve’s chest. The stand like that, for a moment, breathing.

“You got water all over me, though,” Tony quips, and Steve’s laughing, his chest rumbling under Tony’s cheek. Tony pulls back, and Steve’s shaking his head and smiling at him like he’s something incredible. He thinks he’s probably looking at Steve the same way.

Steve presses a kiss to the side of his mouth, and then they’re back to doing dishes, finishing them up silently, and if Tony felt content before then he doesn’t have the words to describe this feeling.

When they finish, they join everyone else on lounges. Nobody gives them a second look, just accepts it when Steve wraps his arms around Tony and pulls him into his lap.

Tony turns his attention to the screen, which has thankfully been changed to something more interesting – some made-for-TV film that looks far better than trees. He sinks back into Steve’s chest, and feels Steve press his lips to his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in so long because I've just been so stuck for inspiration. i've literally spent hours scouring the internet for writing prompts, and, granted, I finished up my final year of school last year, so that was time-consuming, but I haven't had any excuses recently and I keep telling myself that I just want to write but then I have no idea what, exactly, to write.  
> But anyway, I finally got around to actually writing something, if you can believe it. God, it's been so long.  
> Also, I've noticed I write a ridiculous amount of angsty shit so I decided to write something happy - which was surprisingly difficult, in terms of inspiration, but then I just sort of hammered it out in a couple of hours. I'm so excited that I've finally written something in so long, and it's something happy, that I just had to post it now, at 1am, rather than tomorrow. So. Un-beta'd, and proof-read while half-asleep. Sorry for any mistakes.  
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!


End file.
